


World's Finest: Capital Circus

by WingFeathers



Series: World's Finest: The Missing Issues [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, World's Finest (Comics)
Genre: (Bruce is afraid of them too it's okay), (NICE ones! but still), Bruce Wayne Hates Clowns, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Bruce Wayne is not in therapy and it shows, Circus, Clowns, Dick is in therapy and it shows, Dick ships Superbat and it's cute AF, Fluff and Angst, Gen, IDK what continuity this is just roll with it, M/M, Not Haly's Tho, POV Dick Grayson, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bruce Wayne, Protective Clark Kent, Single Parent Dating Is Awkward, Trapeze, UNCLE CLARK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 13:52:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15708549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingFeathers/pseuds/WingFeathers
Summary: Dick demands that Bruce and Clark replace their fancy dinner-date plans with a trip to the circus--the first such trip he and Bruce are taking since that fateful night at Haly's.  Tonight, another rising star of the trapeze will attempt the quadruple somersault in Gotham, and Dick is determined to be there to cheer him on.  But is Dick ready to return to the circus as a spectator?  IsBruce?  And what about theclowns?





	1. the ask

“Capital Circus is in town.”

Dick stood in the doorway to the kitchen, clutching the newspaper section. As soon as he’d seen it, he’d run right down to where Bruce was having his coffee in the breakfast nook, reading a large old-looking tome.

“Bruce, did you hear me? Capital—”

“I heard,” said Bruce, spreading a tissue-thin layer of nutella on his toast. Downright indulgent, for him. “But I’m not having a conversation with you until you put pants on.”

Dick rolled his eyes and marched forward. His red boxer-briefs were not, strictly speaking, _pants_ , but it wasn’t like he was _indecent_. Bruce was just jealous that Dick’s favorite sleep-shirt was an oversized blue tee with a giant House of El sigil—or as the guy at the store called it, a “Superman S”. Dick couldn’t help that the red underwear pulled the outfit together. And anyway, they came down halfway to his _knees_. 

“These are _longer_ than my uniform,” he noted.

Alfred cleared his throat and turned, looking on the scene from the kitchen island where he was frying eggs. “I’m not sure that means very much, Master Dick.”

“That’s _Robin’s_ uniform,” Bruce pressed on. “ _Dick Grayson_ needs to wear _pants_. What if Clark were here?”

“Um, he’d probably be like, _Cool shirt, kiddo!_ And then he’d tell you to get us tickets. Before the good seats sell out for tonight.”

Bruce’s eyebrows pinched together. “Clark and I already have plans tonight. You know that.”

Dick did know that. They were supposed to go to some fancy Belgian restaurant called _Frites_ , leaving Dick at home for the evening. Which was all well and good, except that the CapitalCapital Circus was in town and no one had told him.

“You have _reservations_ ,” Dick countered. “Reservations can be cancelled.”

“Frites is new, and very popular, and only seats twelve. It took me _two weeks_ to get these reservations. _Me_.”

“So Clark will probably hate it anyway. Plus, the circus has hot dogs. Can’t beat that.”

“Hot dogs.”

“Yes. Hot dogs. To eat.” Dick pointed to his mouth. “For dinner.” He pointed to his stomach.

“I don’t eat hot dogs.”

Dick rolled his eyes. Bruce’s health regimen had its merits, but there was a time for exceptions. “Then have a snack beforehand, and you and Clark can go to some fancy dinner after.”

“Can’t we go on a weekday? Or is it one night only?”

“It’s not _one night_ ,” Dick said. “But tonight is _opening_ night. And anyway, it’s my turn to choose.”

“Choose?”

Dick nodded. “Clark took us both to the fair, remember? And then you took me and Clark to the galleries. I should get to pick something to bring you both to. And I’m picking the circus. So. Move your reservations.”

Bruce sighed, and his facade of irritation gave way to concern. “Are you sure you want to do this? You haven’t wanted to go to the circus since—”

“I’m sure.”

“Why now?”

Dick tossed the newspaper on the table, and Bruce leaned over to read. 

“Gabriel Marquez.”

“Keep reading.”

“Attempting the rare quadruple somersault—” Bruce glanced back up at Dick. “That’s _your_ trick.”

“It’s not _mine_ ,” said Dick, though something in him warmed at Bruce’s possessiveness. He’d been the first to master it, that was true, but it didn’t belong to him. Circus arts were all about matching your rivals and one-upping them, after all. And even so, Dick had retired from all that. Someone needed to carry on the legacy. “That’s why I have to go. To support him. It’s his first time doing the trick in public, _ever_.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“C’mon, Brucester. It’s _really_ important. And you _know_ Clark will have fun.”

“I’m not worried about Clark, chum. I’m worried about—”

“ _I’ll_ be okay.” Bruce always worried. But Dick had worked through what had happened. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but he’d talked to his therapist about seeing a show sometime, and _she’d_ thought it was a good idea. That he was ready. “I prom—”

Dick’s assurances were cut off by the sound of someone else entering the room. He spun around to see Clark, in suit and tie despite the early hour.

“ _Clark_?”

“Dick!” Clark cleared his throat. “Um. Oh hey—nice shirt, kiddo!”

Dick’s surprise overcame his desire to gloat. Mostly. He flashed a smug smirk at Bruce and then wheeled back to Clark. “I thought you were coming over _tonight_.”

“I am…”

“So why are you here _now_?”

“Yes, Clark,” said Bruce, “ _please_ enlighten us.”

Clark flushed red. “It seemed rude to just… I mean, I had to run out and deal with a bridge collapsing earlier and didn’t get a chance to say—I mean, you were still asleep…”

There was nothing _rude_ about not stopping over for breakfast. Unless…

“You were here _last night_?” Dick concluded.

“Um.” Clark looked pleadingly at Bruce, who seemed to have no interest at all in helping him out. “Yes? Is that… okay?”

Dick narrowed his eyes, considering. Bruce had seen a number of people since Dick moved in, and Dick was no naive dummy, but there was still something jarring about someone spending the night in the _Manor_. No one did that, at least no one since Dick had moved in. It made sense, since Clark wasn’t someone Bruce needed to hide much of anything from, but it still felt _wrong_ to have other people in the house. Even Clark. But it was Bruce’s house, and if anyone was going to be imposing, it might as well be Clark.

“I _guess_ …”

“Oh come now,” Alfred chided. “I’ve taught both you boys better than that. Mister Kent is our guest. Now, Mister Kent, would you care for some coffee? Cream and sugar, as usual?”

That made Clark brighten up. “I’d love some! Just a cup, Alfred, thank you. I should probably run back to Metropolis and take care of some things before dinner tonight. Just wanted to stop back and…” His eyes seemed to do their best to avoid looking at Dick. “Say goodbye.”

“Of course,” said Alfred, handing him a porcelain mug. “I’m sure Master Bruce appreciates the gesture _very_ much.”

“A text message would’ve sufficed,” Bruce said, not sounding very appreciative at all.

“So Dick,” said Clark, wrapping his hands around the mug, as if he needed the warmth, “what’s this about me having fun?”

Dick crossed his arms and stared down Bruce. “We’re going to the circus tonight. Chance of plans.”

“The circus, huh? You know, I haven’t properly been since I was a kid. It _was_ a lot of fun.”

“See, Bruce?”

Bruce’s nose twitched. “We’d have to reschedule our reservations at Frites.”

Clark shrugged, and Dick’s heart sang a song of victory and pride. He turned to Bruce and silently mouthed the words, _Told you_.

Bruce sighed, long and wearied. “All right. The circus. It’s at seven, Clark—can you make that?”

Clark leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee. “Sure thing.”

“Alfred,” Bruce asked, “you coming along?”

“If no one keeps an eye on the bats downstairs, will you be fully present for your outing?”

Bruce’s nose scrunched in a very boyish way, and he mumbled, “I can try.”

“Admirable of you, sir, but I’ll spare you the effort. Go along and rest easy knowing I’ll contact you if anything’s amiss.”

“Hrn. Thank you, Alfred.” Bruce took a bite of his toast.

“We’re really going?” asked Dick.

Bruce nodded again.

“ _Thank_ you,” Dick said, leaping toward the nook and wrapping his arms around Bruce’s neck, almost knocking the coffee over. “I _promise_ I’ll be okay.”

“You’re welcome,” Bruce said, prying himself out of Dick’s hold. “Now go put on some goddamn pants.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I split this one into chapters, so read on!


	2. the arrival

As soon as the blue-striped tent came into view, Dick jumped with excitement and started banging his palms on Clark’s arm. “Look! Do you see?”

“Yeah,” Clark laughed. “I see it.”

“Stop assailing Clark,” Bruce scolded, prompting Dick to turn his energy on Bruce, jabbing his fists into Bruce’s side. 

“Hey!” Bruce half-heartedly swatted Dick’s fists away. “Knock it off, brat.”

Dick threw out one more punch and suddenly found himself swept over Bruce’s shoulder.

“Guess you’ll just have to see the whole show like this,” Bruce said, ignoring Dick’s fists pounding on his chest.

“Sheesh, that’s rough,” Clark said, pressing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “Sorry I can’t help, kiddo.”

“Cla-ark,” Dick laughed. “Make him let me go.”

“Make him? I don’t see how I could do that.”

Bruce tapped Dick’s leg twice in a familiar signal, and then he pushed, letting Dick kick out and twist into a landing behind him. 

And then the smell of animals and popcorn and heat reached his nose, throwing him into his memories. Some bad ones, but also good ones. Lots of good ones.

He was eleven again, losing everything. Meeting Bruce.

But he was also ten, and mastering the quadruple somersault for the first time. The whole circus family came out to see it. “That’s impossible,” Mister Haly had said, and then Dick’s dad had smiled and answered, “Not for Dick.”

And he was nine, giving Raya a shoddy handmade birthday card. She’d laughed at it, but then she’d shared her chocolate with him. At the time, he’d decided that meant something special. It hadn’t really—she was just nice like that.

He was eight and learning songs in the Romani language from his mother. Really, it was all he knew of the language. She mostly taught him French. And she didn’t sing often. Usually, his dad was the one to sing. 

He was seven years old and performing for the first time, just a short set, a few simple tricks. His dad’s hands wrapped tightly around his wrists, locking the catch. He’d been safe.

He was six and learning lessons on how to care for Elinor and Zitka. “They’re just like people,” Yolanda, the trainer, had told him. “Smart as us and complex as us, but with better hearts.” Zitka was his age, still growing, and she’d live as long as him, too. He thought he’d spend his whole life at her side. But it had been two years now since he’d seen her.

His eyes started to water, but he blinked hard and rubbed his face on his shoulder to avoid having Bruce or Clark bring anything up.

“I’m going to use the restroom before the show starts,” Bruce said, jolting Dick out of his memories. He handed Clark two tickets and a credit card and then pulled his Gotham Knights cap down lower on his head. “In case you two want anything.”

Clark nodded and began to look around at the concessions and toys on the midway. “What d’you say, Dick? You hungry?”

Dick shook his head. His dad’s voice still rang in his ears. No concessions before the show.

“Let’s find our seats first,” he said, tugging Clark along toward the big top. They stepped in and the air conditioning hit hard, a world away from the humid outdoors or stuffy midway.

If he’d thought the midway was a lot to take in, he’d been kidding himself. Dick’s heart began racing as soon as he saw the bright lights, the rig and cables, the excited audience members taking their seats.

And then Clark was kneeling down on one knee, looking him in the eye, holding his hands on Dick’s shoulders. “Hey, kiddo, you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Dick insisted, but his voice shook and his eyes watered despite himself. “I just miss it. I don’t mean—I like what I do now. I just didn’t realize how much I missed it.”

Clark squeezed his shoulders. “I get that. I know it’s not the same at all, but I do miss Smallville every day.”

Dick nodded, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes.

“Should we leave? Bruce will understand if—”

“No. I want to stay.” He had to see Gabriel Marquez. Plus, he’d already ruined their fancy dinner date. He couldn’t then cancel the circus, after begging Bruce to change plans.

“All right, then. If you’re sure.”

“Let’s just find our seats,” he repeated.

“Okay,” said Clark, standing back up and looking down at the tickets that Bruce had left him. He gestured toward the side, a few rows in. “Over here.”

Dick slid easily in as Clark shuffled between the rows of seats. Bruce was already there waiting for them, a soda and bag of cotton candy in hand.

“I assumed you’d want some pure sugar disguised as food,” he said, holding them out.

“Thanks,” Dick said, despite having told Clark just the opposite only a few minutes earlier. Maybe it would be good to have something to eat. Something to make it different from his last night at the circus.

Clark took a look around the seats under the big top. “Surprised we aren’t front and center,” he mumbled.

“I chose the seats,” explained Dick. “The best action’s in the air, not on the ground. And if we were in the middle, we wouldn’t be able to see the rest of the audience as much. See?”

He pointed across, where seats were filling up more and more.

“Plus, we’re right across from the board. I mean, the platform. Look.” He nodded higher up now. The trapeze rig was hardly visible without the lights, unless you knew what to look for. But Dick did.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” came a voice over the speakers, “our show is about to begin. Please silence all phones and refrain from flash photography and video.”

Dick was sitting on the edge of his seat, and as soon as the lights began to lower he started to shout and clap wildly. Bruce leaned close to him and rested an arm across his back.

“You okay?”

Dick nodded.

“You’ll tell me if you aren’t?”

Dick nodded again and flashed Bruce a reassuring smile. “You don’t need to worry about me. Just have fun.”

Bruce’s eyes flickered over in Clark’s direction, and his expression softened into a smile. “All right. As long as there aren’t too many clowns.”


	3. the clowns

There were clowns, of course. Only a few of them, but what kind of circus didn’t have _clowns_?

The first one wasn’t bad, all in all, especially considering the flat energy of the audience. No one laughed when he tripped and fell onto the sawdust. One guy actually booed during a over-the-top clumsy juggling act, but the clown gestured to himself and looked around before breaking into fake tears and running out of the ring.

Gotham wasn’t an easy crowd for clowns.

When he returned the next time, it was with a different clown—a tall woman— dragging him along by the ear.

“Come on, Rolo. What do you mean, they’re bullying you?”

Rolo pointed up at the audience and tried to hide behind the tall clown.

“Don’t be silly, Rolo. There’s _nothing_ to be afraid of. Is there?”

The audience rustled, and Dick leaned forward and shouted, “No way!”

“See? No way. These are nice folks. Now, finish your chores already!”

Rolo walked a wide berth around the tilting platform in the middle of the tent and then shook his head.

“Maybe you need a friend? Who’d like to help out? Show Rolo that everything’s okay?”

Dick grabbed Bruce’s arm and forced it in the air. He jerked it back, but Dick tried again and appealed to Clark with an imploring eye, and Clark took over arm-holding duty.

“I will _not_ be a volunteer,” Bruce whispered across to them.

“You gotta, Bruce. Everyone loves you.”

“Oh, look!” shouted the female clown. “There’s someone, a nice friend to help you!”

“I don’t _gotta_ ,” growled Bruce.

Dick’s face pinched. “You know how hard it is to be a clown in this town? Gothamites _hate_ clowns.”

The female clown was standing in their row now. “Right this way, sir.”

Bruce leaned over and hissed, “I _also_ hate clowns,” but the spotlight had landed on him and he was forced to stand and shuffle to the aisle.

“So kind of you to help, sir. What’s your name?”

“Bruce.”

“Well, Bruce, come on down. Your momma made you do chores, right, Bruce?”

Dick sunk into his seat, suddenly regretting pushing Bruce into the spotlight. What kind of luck to have someone mention Bruce’s mother in the first five seconds. Bruce just rolled with it, though, smiling and saying, “Uh, not really, actually.”

The clown stopped abruptly and looked out at the audience with exaggerated disbelief. “Not _really_?”

Bruce rubbed the back of his neck. “We… had help.”

“Like a maid? Well, isn’t that _fancy_!”

As they stepped back into the ring, a lady in the first row pointed and squealed, “Oh my _God—_ it’s Bruce _Wayne_!”

Bruce flashed his winning smile and bowed his head in acknowledgement, and the audience broke into shouts and applause. Dick whooped from his seat in support.

“Wow, that’s right?” said the chatty clown. “Well, Mister Wayne, if you’ll just assist Rolo, here… Rolo, say hello to your new friend.”

Rolo waved bashfully, and Bruce held out a hand for a shake. Rolo approached, cautious as ever, and started to shake Bruce’s hand, and then shook and shook, and wouldn’t let go. He then pointed at the tilting platform and dragged Bruce over to it.

He touched a toe to the platform and jumped away, and then pointed to Bruce, and then to the platform.

“Me?”

Rolo nodded and the crowd began to clap again. Bruce stepped onto the platform, balancing there, and Rolo inspected it. Apparently satisfied, Rolo pulled at Bruce’s sleeve. Bruce got back off, and then Rolo jumped on and immediately began to swerve this way and that before falling off in a spectacular move, arms and legs akimbo and yet rolling safely onto the floor.

The audience began to laugh now, a little loosened up. 

Now Rolo stood up and went to the side, fetching a mop and wheeled bucket and handing them to Bruce. Bruce dutifully took them and began to mop the area, but Rolo stopped him, taking over. Except, of course, when Rolo tried to mop, the water splashed in his face, the mop slid out to the side, and the clown ended up on the ground again.

The whole routine was like that: Bruce guiding the terrified clown only to have every step backfire. And each time, the audience laughed more and more. Halfway through, Bruce’s compassion got the better of him, and he started _saving_ Rolo from his own disasters, only to end up covered in soapy water himself.

Dick and Clark watched the whole thing with rapt attention: Dick with his feet on his seat, arms wrapped around his legs; Clark, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

Clark chuckled as Bruce swooped down to a knee to catch Rolo from a trip. “He knows he’s not _supposed_ to help, right?”

Dick shook his head, grinning. “He can’t help it. He’s too good, however tough he acts.”

“Yeah,” sighed Clark. He smiled wide and warm. “He really is.”

“Wow,” Dick said, still watching Clark watching Bruce. “You _really_ like him, don’t you?”

Red began to flush Clark’s cheeks. He could’ve stopped it, if he’d wanted. Dick had seen him do it. But it was dark, so maybe Clark wasn’t worried. Or maybe he didn’t care.

“I guess I do.”

Dick settled back into watching the show and leaned his head on Clark’s shoulder. “Good,” he said, as Bruce reached a hand down to Rolo. The clown took it and then went flying off, overshooting Bruce altogether and landing on his face.

The audience roared with laughter.

Finally, the second clown returned, appraised their work, and asked the audience to give Bruce a round of applause. They went wild, and Dick was no exception.

Still, when Bruce slid back into his seat, he could not have glared more ferociously at Dick if he’d been in full-on Batman mode. “I can’t _believe_ you made me do that.”

Dick shrugged and made way for Clark to lean over to wrap a warm hand around Bruce’s wet neck. “You were amazing,” he said.

“Yeah, you should _thank_ me,” Dick said. “Good PR. And you helped the circus performers. That’s important.”

“The clowns.”

“Yeah, Bruce. The clowns.”

“You seemed okay with Rolo out there,” Clark offered.

“It’s not his fault the Joker ruined his act for the city,” Bruce grumbled.

“E- _xact_ -ly,” Dick said, poking Bruce. “He’s a _victim_. You _love_ victims.”

Bruce rolled his eyes and pointed at two new performers, who were starting a daredevil skating act. “Just shut up and watch the show.”

“Yes, _sir_ ,” said Dick, grinning widely.


	4. the trapeze

The show, on the whole, was great. Not as good as Dick remembered Haly’s being, but it had been long enough that he wasn’t as quick to spot the flaws in the juggling or knife-throwing or icarian acts as he would have, once upon a time. Clark watched the whole thing with wide, amazed eyes, and Bruce, while wearing a more skeptical expression, looked just as riveted.

And then finally, all the performers and artists had finished their acts, except for the trapeze. Dick inched forward in his seat in anticipation.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” the ringmaster called out, “please welcome the Capital Circus road crew!”

Everyone clapped as instructed. “Watch with amazement as they rig our net in _record time!_ ”

Bruce knit his brow. “I don’t think _record time_ should be the goal here.”

“It’s a _show_.” Dick turned to the side. “They make everything sound more dangerous than it is. It’s _okay_.”

“Our team’s record is _two_ minutes, but with your support, they think they can beat that today. Are you ready?”

“Three—two—one—annnnnd GO!”

The band struck up and the roustabouts got to work, pulling the lines and affixing clasps.

“But—”

“Bruce, they know what they’re doing.”

Bruce didn’t seem so sure. His brow only knit deeper as the roustabouts worked. Dick looked over to Clark for support, only to find Clark’s bright eyes narrowed in concern. But they weren’t looking at the act: they were fixed on Bruce. 

Clark glanced over to Dick and bit back a closed-mouth grimace, and the pieces clicked.

Bruce had been so fixated on Dick’s well-being that Dick hadn’t stopped to consider that he hadn’t been the _only_ one whose last trip to the circus had been awful. And where Dick had plenty of points of differentiation—the taste of the cotton candy, looking on from the audience instead of standing from on high, the blue tent feeling so unlike Haly’s red—Bruce probably had little to none. He was reliving it all.

“ _Shit_ ,” he muttered under his breath. Clark’s eyebrows raised, but he said nothing.

“Bruce,” Dick said, turning his whole body back now and tugging on Bruce’s sweater, “it’s okay. The net’s gonna be fine. They’re gonna be safe. Nobody’s gonna die tonight.”

“Of course they’ll be safe,” Bruce said, brusquely. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Dick cocked his head.

Bruce nodded quickly. “Clark’s here,” he said, as if that was the only thing keeping this night from becoming another tragedy.

Dick nodded slowly and turned forward in his seat, slumping slightly. He never should have brought Bruce here. What a selfish idiot he’d been.

But then Bruce’s hand was cupped around the back of Dick’s head, stroking his overgrown hair.

The music stopped: the rigging crew now stood to either side of the net, arms in the air, and the audience broke into applause.

“So, which one is Gabriel?” he asked, pointing up at the dimly lit mounting platform, where four trapeze artists were gathering into position.

Dick pointed at one of the performers, a young man climbing the ladder. “Him.”

Bruce nodded, but his jaw clenched tight, clearly trying to mask his nerves.

The spotlight hit the trapeze artists, and something squeezed Dick’s heart. 

“The Capital Circus is proud to introduce you to the Flying Marquez Family! Catching this evening is Rodrigo Marquez!”

Dick’s eyes made their way up the cables holding the catch bar, but he forced himself to stop. There was no reason to worry, just as he’d told Bruce. No one would ever be foolish enough to repeat Tony Zucco’s crimes—not that there was nearly as much of an organized crime network as there had been when Dick had first come to Gotham.

That was a good thought. He really _had_ made a difference.

“Bruce, you’re… having fun, right?”

“Of course,” Bruce said. He was lying. Dick could tell. “Much better than a dinner at _Frites_.”

“On the mounting board and ready to fly: Seba-aaaastian Orsini!” A slighter-framed acrobat waved from the board.

“Say, how about we find some _pommes frites_ from a diner?” Clark suggested. “I bet they’re twice as good anyway.”

“And a quarter the cost,” Dick noted.

“That too,” Clark agreed. “You know what? _My_ treat this time.”

“Okay,” said Bruce. “As long as we’re home by ten. I have work to do tonight.”

“His lovely wife, Paauuuuula Marquez!” A cheerful-looking blonde woman waved with her free hand as she hung from the rigging. And that left… “And the star of the Flying Marquez Family: Gabriel Marquez!”

Dick felt outside himself, clapping for the star of the show, pushing back the thoughts that kept sneaking their way back up: _That should be him, up there._ It wasn’t. And that was okay.

He looked between Clark and Bruce, brightly smiling to avoid causing any concern. He missed the circus, but if the choice was the circus or the life he had, the choice was easy. 

“You’re working tonight?” Clark asked, eyebrows raised.

“I am.” Bruce tightened his arm around Dick’s shoulder and said. “ _I’m_ not the one who missed the entire juggling act to go deal with… what was it? A capsized boat?”

Clark’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “How’d you know?”

“Salt in your hair.”

Dick’s face scrunched in dismay. “I thought you went to the _bathroom_.”

“I did!” Clark’s voice dropped as he added, “To change.”

“ _Clark_!” Dick pulled his lips in tight as he gathered his emotions and set them aside. Clark had a lot more to worry about than some circus performance. “Was it a _lot_ of people?”

Clark nodded.

“Okay,” said Dick, turning his attention back on the trapeze artists. “That’s all right, then. It was just the juggling, anyway.”

Paula took off first, opening with a few turnarounds, a nice and easy cutaway to the catcher, and then a pirouette return. As the tricks increased in complexity, Dick’s attention tightened more and more around the technique and away from any personal regrets or nostalgia or trauma. He was back in his element, watching and coaching and critiquing form. He caught Clark watching him as he whispered notes to himself: _Too much arch! Roll tighter!_

On his other side, Bruce remained uneasy. The arm that had been around Dick’s shoulder had slid down, wrapping around the plastic arm of the seat. He held his right arm close to his chest, tapping his thumb against his lips as he watched. Dick followed his line of sight not to the flyers, but to the catcher, whom Bruce was observing with the concentration of someone learning the art. Bruce had been catching Dick as long as Dick had been Robin, but here he had a professional to watch.

For once, Bruce wasn’t the expert—and what was more, Bruce knew it, and wanted to learn.

That brought a wider smile to Dick’s face as he cheered for Sebastian’s remount and then Paula’s as they finished a modern sort of duo act.

And then Gabriel took his place. He took off and did a few flashy but low-risk turns around the fly bar before a flawless triple-twisting double layout to the catcher and a clean return.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the ringmaster’s voice rang out, “watch closely as Capital’s own Gabriel Marquez attempts one of the most challenging feats in trapeze history—the _quadruple somersault_! If Gabriel succeeds tonight, he will be the second trapeze artist in the world to accomplish this and the only flyer currently performing to do so. Without further ado, please give your attention to the amazing _Gaaaaabriel_ Marquez!”

Dick hadn’t been sure he could shout as long and as loudly as he had been, but he could. He got even louder now, clapping his hands and whooping for the acrobat.

The band picked up, and the applause of the crowd shifted onto the beat. Dick, though, grabbed Clark’s hand in one of his, and Bruce’s in the other. He shook them both, hardly able to contain his anticipation. This was it. Gabriel Marquez’s moment to shine and pick up where Dick had left off.

Marquez took off with determination as he swung the trapeze high into the tent, and then back, and then higher yet. As he came to the top of his third swing, the band flourished to a pause and he released. He flipped, flipped, flipped—

Dick tightened his grip, and Marquez flipped again, reached out for the catcher, and—Dick released his hand in disappointment just before everyone else processed what happened next—missed his catch. Marquez dropped to the net, but Bruce jerked in his seat and was looking away, fixated off in the distance at the ground of the ring, where nothing was happening.

Dick took Bruce’s hand with both of his, now. “Bruce?”

Bruce shook his head, and Clark reached over now, squeezing his shoulder firmly enough to snap Bruce out of his thoughts and meet his eye. “ _Dick’s_ talking to you, Bruce,” he said.

Bruce looked down at Dick’s concerned wide eyes and pulled him into his arms across the plastic seats. Dick wrapped his own arms around Bruce’s neck and clung there for a minute, whispering into Bruce’s sweater. “It’s okay, B. They’re safe. Everyone’s safe. Everything’s okay.”

Dick wanted to check the scene, but all he could see was the darkness of Bruce’s shoulder, and he didn’t dare pull away. But then Bruce kissed the side of his forehead and loosened his hold, allowing Dick to see Clark’s fingertips tap Bruce’s shoulder.

“He says he’s going to try again,” he told them.

Dick slipped quickly out of Bruce’s grasp and back into his seat, looking forward as Gabriel began to climb back up. He knit his hand in Bruce’s. “He’ll get it this time,” he said.

“I’m sure he will,” Bruce answered flatly. He dropped Dick’s hand and resumed his earlier posture, his arm stretched across Dick’s chair as Dick slid up to the edge of his seat in anticipation. It looked casual enough, but Dick was able to see Bruce’s fingers reach out and wrap around Clark’s arm this time as Gabriel Marquez took off once more. Clark set his own hand on Bruce’s, holding it there tightly.

Dick inched forward in his seat between them, eyes peeled, lips tight between his teeth, hands balled into nervous clenched fists. Gabriel released into his somersault and again flipped once, twice, three times, and four, and then reached for the catcher’s hands. 

Dick leapt out of his seat as the audience processed that Gabriel was swinging from the catcher’s hands. He’d caught the somersault.

Clark burst into a grin, and Bruce inhaled sharply with relief.

“YES! YESSSS! WOOOOOO!” shouted Dick, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his cheers. The catcher threw Gabriel Marquez back to the fly bar, and then he swung himself back to the original mount and held his arms open for applause.

Clark and Bruce both followed Dick’s lead now, standing up to cheer, and soon the whole big top was standing and clapping.

The ringmaster called for applause again, this time recognizing the catcher as well, and then named each member of the troupe as they flew out once more, flipped into the net, and then rolled to the ground. When Gabriel’s turn came, he somersaulted into the net and bounced up higher, catching the other bar and garnering even more applause. It was showy, unnecessary, and _absolutely charming_.

Clark leaned over to Bruce, and muttered, “This guy remind you of someone?” 

They both looked down at Dick, who was laughing gleefully now. 

Bruce shot a sharp smirk back. “ _He_ wouldn’t have missed,” he whispered, under the din of the crowd.

Dick beamed a little brighter.


	5. the aftershow

After the final bows were made and the lights turned up, Dick turned toward Bruce and then to Clark. “So. What was your _favorite_ part?”

Clark shook his head. “Only one?”

“Only _one_.”

“It’s a tie between Bruce’s clown routine and the high wire. You know, I thought it would be a little boring, just a guy walking on a rope? But the whole thing was amazing. The courage, the coordination, the communication… Completely amazing.”

Tightrope _was_ boring, but Clark’s reaction made Dick rethink it. Trapeze had _literally_ all the same qualities, but with the added benefit of interesting tricks and high speeds. But the way they got the audience to completely quiet for the tightrope _did_ give it a sort of magical, almost sacred feeling.

“What about you, Bruce?”

Bruce tilted his head. “The brothers with… the icarian act, was it? The one who used his feet to flip the other? That was different.”

“They _were_ cool,” Dick agreed. “I bet we could do that. If we practiced.”

“Maybe,” said Bruce.

The crowd began to file out, and Dick tugged on Bruce’s sleeve. “We can go say hi, right? They said the performers would be there to say hi.”

“Do we have a choice?”

Dick considered it. “Not really.”

Bruce sighed. “Fine, but be quick. You volunteered me, so now everyone knows I’m here—and _I’m_ not signing autographs.”

Bruce’s concerns were unfounded, because other than a few tipsy women who inevitably threw themselves at Bruce, totally oblivious to Clark’s presence, the circus-goers weren’t interested in the billionaire. They’d largely forgotten about him.

There _was_ a small crowd around Gabriel Marquez, however. Dick waited patiently as a few fans snapped photos, and then he slipped his way forward and reached out a hand.

“That was great, Gabe—can I call you Gabe?”

“I guess so. What do I call you?”

“I’m Dick.”

Gabriel Marquez flashed a performer’s smile. “Well, Dick, did you like—” He froze. “Sorry. You look— You aren’t…”

“Dick Grayson? Yeah. That’s me.”

“Holy _cheese_ , seriously? Dick _Grayson_?” Gabriel stumbled back into a popcorn machine. “Oh my God, it’s really you!”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Dick laughed. “I heard you were trying the quad, and I had to see it myself. Really _outstanding_ work.”

Gabriel shook his head, still awe-struck. “I botched it the first attempt.”

“ _Did_ you, though?” It would have been a dangerous piece of showmanship, as every fall could twist a joint out of place—or worse—but experts like Gabriel knew how to fall into the net. And it sure stopped the audience from taking the trick for granted. “I think you just made everyone watching realize that it’s not the piece of cake you make it seem.”

“The piece of cake _you_ make—made—it seem,” Gabriel corrected. “You know _you’re_ why I wanted to try this? I saw you when I was first flying, and I thought, _wow_. Wow, _that_ is trapeze. That is an _artist_. And then you stopped, and—hey man, I get it, I don’t blame you, but that broke my heart, you know?”

Dick’s smile faded as he nodded. “Me too,” he said.

Gabriel touched his own chest with one hand and reached the other to Dick’s arm. “Someone had to pick up where you left off. I guess it’s a little arrogant, now that I say it, but I thought, hey, why not me?”

“It’s not arrogant,” said Dick, perking up some. “You did it! I’m really glad people can see it again—that means a lot to me.”

“To _me_ , man! You, being here… wow. This is like a dream. I thought you went off-grid—no one’s seen you or heard from you or anything.”

“Yeah, I… I needed to step back for a bit.”

“But you came _here_. Sorry, I just can’t believe it. You brought your… guardian or whoever that is?”

“Yeah.” Dick pointed over at Bruce, who was fending off a final admirer of his own. “Bruce.”

“The millionaire? I heard he was at your show that night.”

“Yeah, that’s him. And next to him is my friend, Clark.”

Clark gave a friendly wave, grabbed Bruce’s elbow, and dragged him toward the acrobats.

“Clark, will you take a picture of us?” Dick held out his phone.

“No problemo,” said Clark. “Say _Trapeze_!”

Dick laughed, and Clark clicked three photos while Bruce took one of his own.

Gabriel grinned through them all, like a pro, and then turned back to Dick. “Will you send me a copy? I wanna put it up on my website. _Dick Grayson_ , at my first public quadruple.”

“Sure thing.”

“Hey, Dick—you want me to tell people you’re here? Everyone would love to meet you.”

Dick’s eyes danced over to Bruce as he thought. “I don’t think so. I should go rescue Bruce and get to dinner. You’ll be in town for the month, right?”

“Yeah, you know it. Performing every day but Monday. Twice on Saturdays and Sundays.”

“I’ll come back, then. Bring you the photo. We can hang out? Maybe your family can come for lunch or something—on a Monday, of course.”

Clark nudged Dick. “Maybe an interview.”

“Oh! Yeah!” Dick grinned wide. “Gabe, Clark here’s a reporter. He usually does serious inequality-and-corruption kind of stuff, but he interviewed Bruce once and wrote an amazing piece. Maybe we could do something together, help get the word out about you.”

“Yeah? Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks, man. Seriously, thanks for _everything_. You’re a legend.” Gabriel clapped a hand on Clark’s shoulder. “You know that? This kid’s a legend. My _hero_.”

“Mine too, Gabriel.”

Dick flashed a smile. “Thanks, Gabe. And hey—thanks for keeping the dream alive.”

They parted with a hug and kiss to the cheek in the Argentine style, and then Dick grabbed Bruce’s arms and waved goodbye.

As they reached the curb, waiting for Alfred to pull up with the car, Dick stopped and looked up at Bruce.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For making me volunteer with that clown? Yeah, you should be,” Bruce said, half-joking.

“No, for asking you to come. I didn’t realize…” Dick shook his head. “I didn’t think about what it would be like for you. I only thought about whether _I_ could handle it—but I’ve had exposure. To the memory, you know? Talking through it over and over. Thinking about it all the time. But you _haven’t_ , have you?”

“I hadn’t thought to, in that way,” Bruce admitted, his face now serious. “But I was fine. I had you two.”

He pulled Dick in with one arm and linked the other around Clark’s elbow.

Clark leaned over to kiss the top of Bruce’s head, and Dick broke into a bright smile.

He’d promised he would be okay, and he really _was_. They all were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some discrepancy in canon as to whether Dick was the first to do the quadruple or not. Rebirth had him as one of a handful, which matches the trapeze scene of the 21st century a little more closely.   
>  However,, in both pre-Crisis and post-Crisis continuities he was the first, so I went with that. This version of the DCU is a world without Miguel Vazquez, [who performed the first public quadruple at age 17 in 1982](https://www.nytimes.com/1982/07/13/arts/a-quadruple-for-the-flying-miguel-vazquez.html). This story's Gabriel Marquez is, of course, an homage to Vazquez, though Vazquez was Mexican, not Argentinian, and the first, not the second to make the quad.
> 
> [This is an icarian act](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WZRRvU2Z1F8), for those curious.


	6. epilogue

**ONE WEEK LATER**

 

The last thing Clark expected to find on his desk was a bouquet of flowers. Azaleas, begonias, and poppies, to be precise.

Clark had seen Bruce send flowers before, to Lois, but never to him. And he certainly didn’t have any secret admirers.

Ma, maybe, trying to spruce up his sad little apartment. Whenever she visited, she had some sort of commentary to offer about how lifeless it was.

But then he looked at the card, which read in printed type: _The Manor. Tonight. 8PM. Dress for dinner._

 

***

 

“Alfred?” Bruce leaned back against his office wall as he cradled the phone. He’d been managing a headache all day, and it was only getting worse. He was going to need rest before following up on the new missing persons case. “Cancel my evening engagements.”

“I already have, Master Bruce.”

“You have?”

“Yes, though I wouldn’t plan on _too_ quiet of an evening. Mister Kent is stopping by.”

That wasn’t right. Clark knew better than to make plans without clearing them first. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure, Master Bruce. Dick invited him.”

“ _Dick_ invited him?”

“Just for dinner. At eight o’clock, sir.”

Bruce sighed and pressed his fingertips into the bridge of his nose. He didn’t have the energy to get to the bottom of this. He just had to trust that Dick wasn’t going to ruin everything too terribly.

“All right, Alfred. Thanks, I guess.”

 

***

 

Clark showed up five minutes before eight, to find Bruce wearing a wearied expression and a perfectly tailored waistcoat.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Bruce said, walking Clark in. “Migraine.”

“What’s with the sudden invitation? And _flowers_? Has a demon possessed you and turned you into a spontaneous romantic? Because I have to warn you: I can’t do _anything_ to help against magic.”

Bruce barely cracked a smile. “The demon is a separate entity and takes the form of a thirteen-year-old boy. Though he’s kept everything _very_ hush-hush. I haven’t been allowed in the kitchen, dining room, or terrace all day.”

“So I _shouldn’t_ tell you that he’s reciting lines in Dutch and French right now?”

Bruce smiled. “Any chance those flowers were poppies?”

Clark narrowed his eyes. “Matter of fact, they were. And azaleas and be—”

“—gonias, of course. Is there repurposed wood? Edison bulbs on a string?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t look,” Clark whispered. “Why would he have those?”

“It’s the design of _Frites_.”

Bruce’s hunch was confirmed only a minute later, when Dick, wearing a tux and napkin draped over his arm, appeared.

“Mijne heren, Messieurs,” he began, “Je vais vous servir ce soir. Viens, comme ça.”

Dick turned and lead them through the house and out to the terrace, where he had, in fact, set up a table and bench of repurposed wood, decorated with begonias, and lit by strings of Edison bulbs.  A bowl of oysters sat in the center of the table. Alfred stood to the side, looking on everything with pride.

In the distance, lightning bugs glimmered and faded, like little Edison bulbs dotted across the estate.

Dick gestured to the table and smiled, bright as midday amidst the evening glow.

“Bienvenue chez Frites, Messieurs," he said.  "Bon appétit!”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the one-two double-punch of trauma with these last two! Don't worry, the next outing will be trauma-free. Just awkwardness and fluff all around.


End file.
